Class Book.. a GpiW .- l_ CDEXRIGHT DEPOSIT. Our Lady's Tumbler OUR LADY'S TUMBLER: A TALE OF MEDIEVAL FRANCE £» TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH FROM THE OLD FRENCH BY ISABEL BUTLER £* BOS- TON: COPELAND AND DAY : MDCCCXCVIII H& Entered according to Act of Con- gress by Copeland and Day 1898 in the Library for Congress at Washington TRANSLATOR'S NOTE Our Lady's Tumbler is one of a large body of stories much beloved in Mediaeval France that turn upon some miracle per- formed by the Virgin, — a type of story of which the most familiar example in English is the tale told by Chaucer's prioress. Ear- ly in the thirteenth century sev- eral collections of these miracles were compiled, the two most important being those of Gau- tier de Coinci, prior of Vic-Sur- Aisne, and of Jean le Marchant, a priest of Chatres. Though most of the legends are interest- ing to us to-day mainly for the curious insight they give us into the religious sentiment of the time, there are yet not a few that we like for their own sakes, for their naivete, sincerity, and pathos. These tales — of which about a hundred distinct examples re- main, besides endless variations — differ much among them- selves in incident and dramatis personae. In them we are not, as in the romances, always in the company that Aucassin pre- ferred, that "of the goodly clerks, and the goodly knights that fight in tourneys and great wars, and stout men of arms, and all men noble." Village priests andthievesandstrollingmounte- banks figure as heroes as well as knights and great lords. One tale is of a poor priest, very devout, very charitable, and very ignorant. Being unable to read his breviary, he celebrated day after day the Mass of Our Lady, the only one that he knew by heart. At length news of the matter reached the bishop, who, much scandalised, straightway turned the offender out of office. But his disgrace was short, for that same night Our Lady ap- peared in a vision to the bishop and commanded that the good man be at once reinstated. An- other story is of a thief who, how- ever busy he might be about his trade, never forgot his prayers to the Virgin. And when at last he was taken and condemned to be hung, Our Lady herself stretched out her fair white hands beneath his feet and supported him, so that he felt no hurt or in- convenience from the rope about his neck. Those who had pre- viously condemned now gladly released him; on thus regaining his freedom he entered a monas- tery and vowed himself to the service of the Virgin. In spite of their variety of de- tail, all the stories are yet domi- nated by onecommonsentiment, — that of pity. It is true that from the point of view of justice this compassion seems often some- what oddly bestowed, and the reward, say of the thief for duly reciting his prayers at proper intervals, wholly undeserved. Yet even such cases as these may be taken as but the extreme expression of the idea of human weakness and the power of for- giveness so deeply rooted in mediaeval Christianity. Though Our Lady's Tumbler shows this same spirit of naive faith and devotion, it yet differs from the majority of similar tales by its subtler moral thinking, and a more lifelike presentment of its story. The minstrel himself, his embarrassment among his new companions, his doubts, his compunctions, his final determi- nation to serve by his own trade as best he may, and the eager- ness with which he goes about his work, all this comes home to us sharply enough. So too does the monk who spied upon the convert when at his curious de- votions, and who could laugh at the spectacle and yet like the man the better for the earnest- ness with which he plied his trade. Thus instead of being hur- ried on to the miracle at the end, we are allowed to linger by the way ; and through all the story we find something of the temper of the monk who was moved by the tumbler's way of serving both to mirth and to compassion. The original, like most medi- aeval stories, is written in verse, the form being the much-used short octosyllabic line arranged in rhyming couplets. Of the his- tory of the little poem we know almost nothing. Its editor, Wil- helm Fcerster, tells us that its language is of the end of the twelfth century, and its dialect that of the Isle de France. Be- yond this his information is pure- ly negative. Its author is un- known, and so too is its precise date ; it is not found in any of the chief collections of the miracles of Our Lady, and, although its author asserts that he has found his material in the lives of the Fathers, its sources have not yet been discovered. The poem, edited from a manu- script in the Arsenal Library in Paris, by Foerster, first appeared in the "Romania" for 1873. It has, somewhat oddly, never been reprinted; so that the story that a specialist like M. Gaston Paris and a literary wanderer like M. Anatole France unite in prais- ing is still only to be found in the back number of a learned maga- zine. In 1894 a translation by P. H. Wicksteed was published in England. The fact that the edi- tion was a small one, and the book already out of print, excuses another version. When Fcerster brought out the story in 1 873, he knew of the exis- tence of but a single manuscript. Since then two more have been found, a second in the Arsenal Library and another in the Na- tional Library. In 1880 Gustav , Groeber published the variants of these manuscripts in the " Zeit- schrift fiir Romanische philolo- gie" (Vol. IV.). The variations of text are for the most part slight and, from a literary point of view, unimportant. In a few instances, however, Grceber's readings have been adopted in the present translation. &OUR LADY'S TUMBLER ^ N the lives of the early 1^3 fathers, where there is <^M$3 much goodly matter, we ti?l=-^> are told this tale. I do not /psay that there is not many an- \jbother to be heard fairer than this, Jonly that this is not of so little v worth but that it is good to tell. Now speak we of a certain min- strel and what befell him. nl^B~£ E came and went for so J ^lMp| long in divers places, and ^ftsfek so wasted his strength, Fthat at last, weary of the world, he I withdrew into a holy order. His horses, his garments, his money, Jl and all that he had he put therein, 4((jand left the world, for he would 5* follow its ways no more. Thus, I then, he came into the monas- tery which, men say, was that of Clair vaux. Now, though the youth was of much worship, and fair and well made and goodly, he yet knew no craft of which the folk there stood in any need. For he had lived only by tum- bling and leaping and dancing; and though he knew right well how to leap and to spring, he knew naught beside, for no other lesson had he ever learned, nor knew he either Pater Noster, or pxhant, or Credo, or Ave, or aught welse that might work for his sal- £vation. OW, when he was come into the monastery and saw >the tonsured brethren who let no word fall from their lips, but spoke among themselves by signs, he believed that they held communication one with an- other only in this wise. But soon he was undeceived, and learned that they denied themselves speech only as a penance, where- fore at certain times they were silent. And it seemed to him fit- ting that he too should forego speech ; and he remained silent so cheerfully and so persistently that he would not speak for a whole day, were he not other- wise commanded, whereatthere was often much laughter. And the minstrel was much abashed and ill at ease among the breth- ren, for he knew not how to share by word or by deed in that which was the practice of the place ; so was he dejected and heavy at heart. He sawthe monks andthe lay brothers each serving 4Bod in his place and after the man- ner appointed to him. He saw the priests before the altar, for that was their office; he saw the deacons at the Gospels, and the sub-deacons at the vigils; and the acolytes in their turn were ready at the Epistles when the time was. One recited a psalm, and another the lesson for the day; the young clerks were at their psalters, and the lay broth- ers at the litanies, — for sucH is the order in these matters, — while the more ignorant said their Pater Nosters. A *m jf E looked about him up and c>*H* down through all theoffices gand courts, and in many a hid- den corner he saw men in fours or fives or twos, or singly may- be ; and if so that he might, he looked hard at every man of them. He heard one groan, and another weep, and a third sigh and lament, and much he mar- velled what the matter might be. "If^oly &£ary," said he, " what is amiss with these men that they bear themselves thus, and make such dole? Methinks they must be sore vexed and troubled to be- moan themselves thus." Then he said again : ' ' J^oly &£ary , alas, and woe is me ! what is this that I have said? I do believe that they pray 4B>od's mercy. But I, poor wretch that I am, what do I do here? There is no one so base in all the convent but strives to serve awa y through the clois- ((?ter, looking this way and that, until he came into a crypt ; there he crouched down by an altar, drawing himself as close to it as he might. Above the altar was a statue of <©ur ftady, the i^oly J Sl^ary, and he did not go astray when he came into that place; no, in sooth, for <£Bod, who directs His own, had guided his foot- steps thither. Anon, when he heard the mass begin, he sprang up dismayed, "Ah! how am I brought to shame," he cried; " now everyone is saying his les- son, and I am as a tethered ox, for I do naught but browse, and I eat my bread to no purpose. Shall I serve neither by word nor by deed? By the pother of <©od, I will ; nor shall I win any blame thereby; I will do what I have been taught to do, and I will serve the pother of 4Bod here in her monastery by my own trade ; the others serve 8 by singing, and I will serve by tumbling/ ' He took off his cloak and dis- robed himself, and laid his gar- ments beside the altar; but that he might not be wholly naked, he kept on a coat that was light and fine of texture ; of little more weight was it than a shirt, and the rest of his body was left free. He girded and busked him, right well he girdedihis coat and made him ready. Then he turned to the image, and looked up at it very humbly: "Hady," said he, "into your care I commit me, body and soul, gentle flady, <£weet<©ueen,donotdespisethat which I know, for I would serve you in all good faith, and so 4Bod may help me, without offence. I know not how to read or to sing, but right gladly will I show you my most chosen tricks of tum- bling; and I will be as the young calf that skips and springs be- fore his mother. Hady, who are never cruel to those who serve you faithfully, such as I am now am I wholly yours." Then he began to leap and to spring, now up and now down, beginning first with small ca- pers, and then leaping higher and higher. And then he went down on his knees before the image, and bowed before it, saying: "&£ost c&weet <©ueen, of your grace and your mercy despise not my service." Then again JO he leaped and tumbled, and, to make merry, he did the trick of Metz around his head. Anon he bowed before the image and worshipped her, and honoured her with all that he had. Then he did the French trick and the trick of Champagne, and next the Spanish trick, and the tricks they do in Brittany, and then the trick of Lorraine; and he did them all with great travail, and spared himself not at all. There- after he did the Romish trick, and putting his hands before his face, danced right featly and fairly, as he looked all humbly upon the image of the Smother of 4Bod. "ftady," he said, "this is good disport; and I do it for no U other save for you and for your £on before all, so 4B>od may help me, I do not. And I dare boast and maintain that I do not do this for my own pastime, but only to serve you, and to acquit myself; the others serve, and I serve. 3tady, despise not your thrall, for I serve you for your delight. Slady, you are the highest joy, whoever reckons all the world." Then he tumbled with his feet in the air, and went and came on his two hands, touching the earth only with these ; yet even while his feet were dancing the tears fell from his eyes. "3lady," he said, "I worship you with my heart and my body, my feet and my hands, for I know not how to 12 worship you in any other way. Henceforth will I be your min- strel; and while the others of the convent are chanting within, I will come and tumble here for your delight Slady, you can guide me. In oBod's name, de- spise me not." Then he con- fessed his sins, and made moan and wept softly, for that he knew no other manner of worship. Then he turned away and made a spring, "itady," he said, "so 45od may save me, this thing did I never before. This trick is wholly new, and is not for com- mon folk, Hady, how his desires would be fulfilled who should dwell with you in your glorious manor. In 40od's name, Hady, 13 receive me there; wholly yours am I, nor mine at all." And again he did the trick of Metz, and tumbled and danced persist- ently. And when he heard the sound of the chant rise higher, he exerted himself the more ; and as long as the mass lasted, so long did he leap and skip and dance, and never ceased till he was so spent that he could no longer hold himself upright, but sank down for very weariness, and fell to the ground exhausted ; and as the fat runs out of a piece of roast meat, so the sweat ran off all his body from head to foot. "Hady," said he, " I can do no more now, but in sooth I will come again." 14 *LL burning seemed he with gheat. He put on his gar- ments, and when he had clothed himself he arose, and bowed be- fore the image, and went his way. "Farewell," he said,"Most Sweet Friend, in 40od's name be not cast down, for if I may I will return, and every hour I will serve you the best I can, — if it please you, and if it be permitted to me." Then he went away, still looking back at the image. "Hady , ' ' said he, " much it r ep ent- eth me that I do not know all those psalters, for right gladly would I say them over for love of you, almost £weet 3£ady. To you I commend me, body and soul." 15 ND he continued long in this way of life, returning without fail at every hour to offer ^his homage and his service be- fore the image. For his delight lay in this thing; and gladly he performed it, so that there was never a day when he was so weary that he would not yet do £*his best for the delight of the Smother of 4B>od; nor did he ever desire other pastime. HEY of the house knew, *ifCl^) no doubt > that he went ^b»-TO every day to the crypt, but no one, save 4Bod, knew what he did there ; and he would not for all the riches of the world that anyone save the Slord oBod alone were aware of his employment. 16 ®. For he feared that if they should know of it they would straight- way drive him out from thence, and cast him back into the world that so teems with sin ; and he had rather that he were dead than that sin should again sting him. But <£5od, who read the in- tent of this good man, and all his compunctions, and knew for whose love he did this thing, willed that his deed should no longer be hid. Rather, the Slord willed and determined that the labour of His friend should be known and made manifest, for the sake of i^is another for whose delight he had wrought, and that all might see and know and un- derstand that 45od refuses no 17 lone that comes to Him in love, whatsoever his estate may be, if 5 he but love 45od and do right. ' — ~°^ O you think that eloved, that she in her gentleness beseech her £on, her father, her Hord, that I may see this sight to-day, if it be J^is will; that <(5od thereby may be the more beloved, and the good man be not blamed, — if J^e wills thus." Then they went all quietly to the crypt, and with- out mishap hid themselves in a nook hard by the altar, in such wise that the good man saw them not. And the abbot and monk watched all the convert's devotions, and the divers tricks that he performed, and all his leaping and dancing; and they saw how he bowed before the image, and how he skipped and sprang till his strength failed 23 him. For he so exerted himself in his weariness that he might no longer hold himself upright, but fell to the ground exhausted. So worn and spent was he with his labours that the sweat ran out from all his body down upon the floor of the crypt. But pres- ently, and in a little space, his most J>weet Hady came to suc- , cour him, she whom he had served so truly, gladly she came at his need. a^ND the abbot watched £and straightway saw a plady come down to him ls>\f rom the vault, so glorious that none was ever seen like to f li her in loveliness or in richness of adornment, for none so beau- 24 tiful was ever born. Her gar- ments were rich with gold and precious stones; and with her came angels and archangels from heaven, who came about the minstrel and gave him com- fort and consolation. And when they were gathered about him his heart was lightened. Then they hastened to serve him, for they longed to reward him for the service that he had paid to their ILady, that most £weet iBonder. And the sweet and gra- cious <©ueen held in her hands a white napkin, and with it she fanned her minstrel right gently before the altar. The flady, noble and gentle, fanned his face, and neck, and body to cool him; 25 gladly she succoured him, and gave herself wholly to the task. But the good man takes no heed of this, for he neither sees nor knows what goodly company is about him. The holy angels do him great honour; but now they may stay with him no longer, and their Hady stays not, but makes the sign of the cross upon him, and turns away. The holy angels follow her, yet they find a won- drous delight in gazing back upon their comrade, and do but await the hour when 4Bod shall call him from this life and they may receive his soul. And this the abbot and his monk saw in very deed a good four times; for 26 it befell that at every hour the Smother of 4Bod returned to aid and to succour her servant, — well knows she how to succour her own. And the abbot was much rejoiced thereat, for he 3) had been very desirous to get the truth of the matter. ND now <*Bod had clearly shown thatthe service the poor man offered to Him pleasing in His sight. The monk was all abashed, and his j anguish burned him as a fire. \" My lord," he said to the abbot, "have mercy! this is a very holy man that I see here. Now if I have spoken any evil concern- ing him it is right that my body suffer for it. So lay a penance 27 upon me, for, in sooth, this is a good man and a true. We have seen all this matter from end to end, and we can never be in any doubt concerning it." And the abbot said: "You speak truly, and oBod has made it plain that He loves him with a great love. Now I command you straight- way, in virtue of obedience, and if you would not fall under sen- tence, that you speak to no one of what you have seen, save only to OBod and to me." "My lord," he said, "I give you my promise." And with these words they went away, and stayed no longer in the crypt. And the good man lingered not, but, having finished his task, he put on his 28 % garments, and went to take his ^) # pastime in the monastery. S^a^ySHUS the time came and ^jp^&went until a short space ^■^^■thereafter it befell that (&sz4&zthe abbot summoned to him the man who was so com- ^ pact of goodness. Now, when he 3(j)/ heard that he was summoned, and that the abbot had asked for him, his heart was full of bitter- ness, for he knew not what he should say. " Alas," thought he, " now am I accused. Never shall I be for a day without annoy and travail and shame, for my ser- vice is as naught. I fear it is not pleasingto 4Bod, but rather, alas ! it is displeasingto Him, since the 29 truth of it has become known. Did I think that such labour as mine and such pastime were fit to please the Itord <£5od? Nay, they could not please Him. Alas! I have done no good thing. Woe is me! what shall I do? Woe is me! what shall I say? Oh, jfair, ^weet f ather, what will become of me? Now shall I be undone and brought to shame ; now shall I be driven hence, and be made a butt of out there in the world that is so full of evil. J^oly Sl^ary, J>weet 3tady, how is my mind bewildered! Where to turn for counsel I know not. ftady, come you to my counsel. Sl^ost 4E>ra- cious <*Bod, now succour me! 30 Rest not, stay not, come, and your holy Smother thereto; in <©od's name come not without her. Come ye both to my suc- cour, for in sooth I know not how to plead. They will say straightway and at the first word: 'Hence! get you gone!' Woe is me! what can I answer, I who know not a word to say? Alas, what avails it? Go hence I needs must," Weeping, so that his face was wet with his tears, he came before the abbot ; weep- ing, he kneeled down before him. "My lord," he said, "mercy, in 435od's name. Would you drive me out from here? Say what you command of me, and I will do all your bidding." 3J HEN the abbot said: "I would know concerning you, and I would that you should tell me the truth. You have been here for a long time, year in and year out, and I would know in what manner you serve, and how you earn your bread." "Alas," said he, "well knew I that when my labours became known I should straightway be driven forth, and the folk here would have no more to do with me. I will go my way, my lord," he said. "Wretched I am, and wretched I shall be, and of good I never did any whit." The ab- bot answered: "I do not say that. But I beg and entreat, and thereto I command you in virtue 32 of obedience, that you open your heart to me, and tell me by what trade you serve us here in our monastery." " My lord," re- turned the other, "you take my life, for your command is as death to me." Then he told him, howsoever great was his grief, all the story of his life from end to end, and left not a word un- said, but told it all in one tell- ing, just as I have told it to you. He said and related it all to him, weeping and with clasped hands; and, sighing, he kissed his feet. The holy abbot came to him, and, weeping, he raised him up. He kissed him on both his eyes. " Brother," he said, " now say no 33 more, for I pledge you my word that you shall be of our fellow- ship. when his heart came back to ?him, his body was so rudely Jshaken by joy that a malady fell upon him, whereof he shortly died. But he did his office right cheerfully, and without rest, morning and evening, day and ^ night, so that he missed not a (^single hour until he fell sick. ij\Vj^g OW, in sooth, the sick- ^InH! ness ^^ ^ e ^ k* m was Qj^&sl) so great that he might not %6stir from his bed. And he was (o'in grievous trouble for that he od, who is above all, that He grant us to serve Him so well that we may deserve His love. Here ends the story of Our Lady's Tumbler. ^q This edition of OUR LADY'S TUMBLER is printed by John Wilson and Son of Cambridge during February, 1898, for Cope- land and Day, Boston. u Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: Jan. 2008 PreservationTechnologies A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724)779-2111